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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26490526">32 Hours</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty/pseuds/crimsonkitty'>crimsonkitty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Speed Racer (2008)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sleep Deprivation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:34:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>638</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26490526</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty/pseuds/crimsonkitty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>32 hours before the big day</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>32 Hours</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i wrote this forever ago and never posted it so uh. here?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Somewhere around hour eighteen, Mom stands up and says, “It’s someone here’s bedtime.” </p>
<p>It’s declarative. The soft sort of voice that doesn’t leave room for questions. </p>
<p>“But Mom-”</p>
<p>“Not you, Spritle.” </p>
<p>Spritle whoops. Pumps a fist in the air and runs circles around the workshop until Sparky grabs him by the jumpsuit collar. </p>
<p>Speed isn’t listening. He should be but there’s a welding torch in his hand, has been since hour seven. He doesn’t notice anything has been said at all until Mom puts a hand on his shoulder and leans down. </p>
<p>“Speed, honey? Bedtime.” She looks at Speed and smiles. It shows the lines around her mouth. “Big day tomorrow.” </p>
<p>They’re all looking at him, some kind of cockpit quiet growing in the middle and spreading out to the edges of the room. Spritle struggles at the end of Sparky’s wrist, before resigning himself to his crossed arms and a glare in Speed’s direction. The corner of Trixie’s mouth is pointed up, dark smears on her jaw. Pops rubs at something with a rag. </p>
<p>“What?” The words she’s saying don’t quite make sense, like they’re caught and jumbled in his head. </p>
<p>“Bed.” Mom pulls gently at his arm. The grease stains of his t-shirt line up with the marks on her fingers. “Come on.” </p>
<p>“But-” </p>
<p>But Speed can’t even think of sleep. He’s got goggles on his head and blueprints at his feet and more work to do than he can process right now. His hands aren’t even shaking. </p>
<p>(They never do.) </p>
<p>They’re all subsisting on cat naps in Pops’ work chair in the corner and everyone except Spritle and Speed are several cups of coffee in. Spritle seems to subsist on sugar and fluorescent lighting as usual. </p>
<p>(Coffee always makes Speed sleepy and slow. He questions the fairness of this often.) </p>
<p>“Nope. No arguments. Up you get, young man.” </p>
<p>His protests are token. He knows they won’t do any good. Not when Trixie grabs the goggles from his head and kisses him on the cheek when he passes. Not when Mom tucks her hand more securely around his elbow. </p>
<p>The rest of the house is silent. Overly bright and slipping sideways. Speed feels the weight of it pushing down on his shoulders as Mom leans her head against him in the sudden darkness of his room. </p>
<p>They stand, silent. Speed puts a hand over her’s. </p>
<p>“You think I can do this?” he whispers. The Ben Burns poster looks up at him from the floor. Torn across the corners but still smiling. He grips his mom’s hand tighter. </p>
<p>Burns and Stickleton and Cannonball Taylor. </p>
<p>Not even Rex had...</p>
<p>Rex had…</p>
<p>Racer X’s face flashes before him, sad, slanted with light and pride. But not Rex. </p>
<p>
  <i>Sorry.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Don’t be.</i>
</p>
<p>He’s back in the ice caves, watching rainbows light up every surface and imprinting on the inside of his skull, sliding around corners with abandon, every hint of tail light belonging to the ghost of a red T-180. </p>
<p>“Speed.” </p>
<p>He looks at her. He’s watched her mouth move this whole time but can’t remember the words that were said. </p>
<p>“I just don’t know if…”</p>
<p>He bites his lip, pulls the rest of the sentence back in, lodges it somewhere in his stomach. Words aren’t what he’s good at. </p>
<p>“Oh, honey.” </p>
<p>She kisses his hairline, a small press of comfort in the dark. “It’ll all make sense tomorrow.”</p>
<p>The seat molded to his body, helmet pressing into his temples and everything just. Slows. </p>
<p>“I love you.” </p>
<p>He hears it. She makes sure he does. </p>
<p>“I love you too.” </p>
<p>She pushes his shoulders down onto the bed, pulls the covers up to his shoulders. Tucks a lock of hair off his forehead and into place. Taillights for him to follow. </p>
<p>“Good night, Speed.” </p>
<p>“Good night, Mom.” </p>
<p>He sleeps for twelve hours.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can find me @ kaqueershi on twitter</p></blockquote></div></div>
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